Chapter Text
It was a bad idea. The whole thing, right from the very start, was a stupid, terrible idea. In truth, he shouldn’t have even seen the envelope, which should have alerted him to the entire venture’s folly. He didn’t look at the mail, most of it going straight to Yoko’s desk where she wanted it. John preferred it that way; can’t make the wrong one if you’re not making any decisions.
He wasn’t sure why this particular envelope ended up in the flat, propped under a clock in the hallway. Very innocent. It was white, all clean lines and neat black writing. Perhaps that’s why he paid it so much mind. It had to mean something that it was the only one he’d seen in weeks. Perhaps months.
Mr and Mrs John Lennon.
He almost smiled. Yoko wouldn’t like that. She hated being erased from her own name. Perhaps that’s why he reached for it. Her name being absent almost certainly meant it had come from England. A missive from the motherland. Not to be ignored.
He whipped a hand out, fast, like he was doing something illicit and slipped it into his pocket. He had to fold it right down the middle to make it fit. Nothing stayed pristine around him for long.
Then he didn’t think of it, like it might be a jinx to even let it enter his mind. It wasn’t until late, late, late that night that he pulled it out. He turned on the little light by his bed, white light spotlighting on the nightstand as he slipped from under the sheets and pulled it out of his discarded jeans before sneaking back under the cool cotton. He didn’t think about how easy it was to do things unseen by anyone at all since Yoko had stopped bothering to return from the other flat. Now he just needed to wait until everyone else had left or gone to bed. Sometimes it felt like it might not be happening at all.
Instead, he focused on the task at hand, taking his time tearing the envelope open, sliding a finger under the flap and carefully moving it along the seam. He wasn’t planning on resealing it, but he wanted to make the moment last. He knew it would probably be boring; someone asking for money, an update on the weather in Blighty, perhaps even some dull business matter. But he wanted the moment of uncertainty, where it could be something big or something Earth-changing, to last. It had been a long time since something like that had come to him.
He pulled out the contents, three sheets of crisp, white paper.
He read through the top one. He frowned. Read it again.
Interesting.
John wasn’t sure when he’d last been to a wedding. He had the sense that people made a fuss now. Celebrating their love in the most obvious, ostentatious ways. Not like in his day, where the point was to be married and be done with it. He didn’t like the idea of going, and he and Eric weren’t all that close, certainly not recently.
Still.
It was interesting.
He knew he ought to dismiss the idea of going out of hand: it wasn’t practical; there was too much he needed to get done; Yoko would go spare at the very idea; he didn’t really want to leave Sean and, if he were being completely honest, he didn’t even really want to leave the flat. So, he pushed the thought of it away.
It was a silly idea.
Only John should have known that it was the silly ideas that tended to linger. They crawled back into his mind over and over. He could bat it away as he went through the following day, but when he tried to settle that night, it slunk back to squat firmly in the front of his mind. And niggled at him. It was just the vague outline of it, just the image of England in the spring. The idea of green lush gardens and people in suits. Laughter. Flowing drinks and proper food.
Of course none of the people he was only currently allowing himself to imagine in the abstract would be pleased to see him. It had been too long. None of them had even been in touch to ask if was going.
He pushed the idea away again and rolled over, screwing his eyes tightly closed like that might stop him picturing it.
Although.
His mind supplied chirpily that could go and see Mimi while he was there. It would stop her insistent nagging at him and it wasn’t like she wasn’t getting any younger. He would never forgive himself if she up and died before he made it back. At the very least it would be a break from the stale air of his bedroom. The white walls were starting to close in. Disappearing into the wide, open spaces of Kent was probably a better alternative to jumping from the window in the hopes of escape. Besides, he didn’t even have to speak to anyone there who wasn’t getting married that day. Presumably Eric wanted him there and Pattie and he had always got along just fine.
The others would be there. Perhaps all three of them.
That thought was a sickly sort of stopper on any other thought. He wasn’t even sure how he felt about it other than sick to his stomach, but if that was with fear or anticipation he wasn’t sure. Although even a good, knock-down fight seemed appealing some days.
He turned the idea over and over. Inspecting it for faults and traps. He wasn’t sure, actually, that it would even be possible to get there. There would be more than a couple of hurdles to overcome before he arrived in the Eden of England again. He’d felt so useless, so impotent, for so long he wasn’t sure if he’d have a hope in clearing them.
In the end, that was the thought that did it: that it might not be possible. Because then it was a challenge.
Perhaps he could see if he could do it. See if he was capable of getting to London. Just a little test to prove to himself, to Yoko, to Sean that he wasn’t a useless, helpless baby.
He started at the beginning.
“Feels like time for a trip,” he said, casually. It was over breakfast. Sometimes the only time he saw Yoko before bed.
Yoko looked up from her food. Her face was blank, carefully disinterested as it often was lately.
“Probably for a week,” he continued, he kept eating, it was easier to lie when you had something else to focus on while doing it. “Maybe two. Would be good to know where’s best, you know?” He kept it neutral. Easy did it, no need to get her attention.
“I’ll look it up,” she said. Her eyes didn’t leave the newspaper awkwardly folded half over her plate. “Probably North.”
He nodded. She’d get someone to book the tickets for him. That was fine; he’d just have to book another ticket for the same day.
The idea of telling her the truth was out of the question. She wouldn’t agree to it and the resulting fallout would last for weeks. It was easier to ask for forgiveness. If she ever had to know at all.
It was only after she sent word through Fred that it was a good time to travel to Canada that he realised that he didn’t actually know how to book plane tickets. Then it turned out to be harder than he’d have liked to admit. He needed a credit card. Which he wasn’t sure he even owned, or more to the point, if he owned one for the account Yoko didn’t know about. Or, at least, he was fairly certain she didn’t know about it. Either way, he knew for sure she didn’t have access to it.
He went to the bank. Twice. Then he went to a travel agent. Three times. Just for a bloody plane ticket. Surely Fred didn’t have to do that every time they went somewhere. Surely . He was tempted to ask, but of course he couldn’t.
Yoko announced he ought to go to Hong Kong once he was finished in Vancouver. That sounded nice. Shame he wouldn’t see it. But at least it gave him longer. Two weeks. Maybe three. Definitely time to see Mimi once the wedding was done. Perhaps he’d even get to Pete’s.
He knew, of course, that what he was doing was wrong. Or at best dubious. Keeping things from the wife was bad. Outright lying was surely off limits. Still. He wanted to go. He needed to go. So he kept going; there wasn’t anything else for it.
The day of the trip got closer. He packed. Fred lingered, offering help and, more importantly, gathering intel for Yoko. He tried to ignore him as best he could.
“You want me to come?” Fred asked from the doorway. “I could help while you’re there.”
It was an innocent question. He was pretty sure Fred couldn’t mean anything by it. There wasn’t any way for him to know.
“Nope,” he said, not looking up. “This one’s just for me. Yoko seemed to think that would be best.”
It wasn’t a lie. She didn’t say he needed to take anyone. That was pretty much the same thing. Fred didn’t try and argue, just nodded and watched as John finished throwing things into a suitcase.
His heart was in his throat the whole way to the airport. Then through security and onto the plane. He didn’t relax, didn’t let any tension go, until he was in the air. Only then did he allow himself to believe it. He’d done it. He was going to England for the first time in a decade.
— — —
England was cold. Not that New York wasn’t, but England was a different sort of cold. Fresher, wetter. Familiar. He took a deep breath, as he stepped off the plane, closing his eyes.
The wedding was the next day. He didn’t want to chance it getting into the press that he was there before the point of him going had been achieved. He’d already had a word with a very lovely woman that worked for BA at the airport. In turn, she’d called ahead and worked out a way for him to slip out of Gatwick and into a waiting car. He hadn’t booked a hotel; just thought he’d drive to one and go from there. It seemed too risky any other way.
He knew, whatever he did, it would likely get out. He reckoned, if he were lucky, he’d have forty-eight hours before Yoko got wind of where he was, either through the papers or some other means. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do then. He hadn’t wanted to think that far ahead.
In fact, he didn’t have any plans at all. That had been a step too far. If he’d thought about the reality, he would never have got on the plane. As it was, he’d succeeded in his quest. He’d proven that he was capable of making a trip without everything being sorted for him. He could make his own decisions and act on them. Now he had to live with the consequences.
He named a hotel at random to the driver who looked suitably awed by his arrival in the back seat of his taxi. John wondered if he’d go straight to the press the moment John was out of the car.
“More than my job’s worth to do that,” the driver - Mike, according to his badge - said, eyes flicking to the rearview mirror to look at John.
He nodded. “It’s just a short trip back to England,” he said, more to himself than the driver. “Need to get back. You know how it is.”
The man agreed, his dark eyes back on the road. Although John could feel them flick back to him occasionally. He ignored him and looked out the window.
There was an ache in his chest. Just the sight of the rain falling on grey tarmac, so familiar, was enough to make him wonder why he’d ever left. New York had seemed glamorous, far enough away that he wouldn’t be able to see what he’d left behind even when he looked over his shoulder. It was easier to not miss something he couldn’t see or even see mirrors of. England wasn’t like America, despite the obvious similarities. Nowhere was.
He hadn’t expected just the sight of it to hurt. He closed his eyes and tried not to think about what else was going to feel like a punch to the gut.
— — —
John managed to arrive early to the great event. He wasn’t sure the last time he’d managed to do that. Anxiety had its uses as it turned out. He’d been awake and pacing his hotel room in his new suit by 8am. He’d started to feel like a caged animal by ten. He’d ended up in a car much too early. But, he couldn’t stand the waiting. The quiet of the hotel was too thick; he missed Sean. He missed Fred which was humiliating. Missing employees was surely something he should be above.
If nothing else, it proved that he’d made the right decision. He needed to expand his horizons again. Get some actual friends. Or, reengage with some old ones. For ease if nothing else.
The upside of being earlier than anyone had surely been for anything ever, was that he was amongst the first guests. None of his former bandmates were there. He let out a sigh of relief. Having control of the battlefield was important if you were going to fight a war, which meant the morning could actually be seen as a good tactical decision and not as him being too much of a coward to sit alone for a minute longer. Not that he wanted a war, of course. But, that didn’t mean it didn’t make sense to prepare for one.
He was admitted to the house without incident, and smoothly ushered right through it and out into the palatial garden. It was a sea of lush green, dotted with trees and flowerbeds, all neatly tended. The perfect English garden for the perfect English gentleman and woman.
It had been decked out for the occasion. Long tables with white table clothes, holding trays of drinks and sparkling glasses bracketed round ones with empty chairs around them. Lights had been strung in the trees, and a stage with basic AV had been set up behind them. Everything looked pristine, the whole scene seemed to glow in the early-afternoon light. John was grateful that he’d at least brought a good suit. It wasn’t too formal, but it was fitted, in a light brown linen. With a cream shirt and the tie he’d thrown on, he at least felt like he fitted the scene well enough.
Pattie saw him before anyone else. She came towards him, beaming with her arms outstretched, she looked almost as radiant as she had at the first wedding around. She had lost none of her shine during the years since John last seeing her firsthand. He smiled at her, warmth flooding him. He’d forgotten how good it could be, the familiar and long unseen.
She kissed him sweetly on the cheek. “John, it’s so good to see you! We didn’t think you’d make it.”
“And miss you looking like this?” He tutted. “You take me for a fool.”
She laughed, still charmed by him, thank all that was good. She tapped him on the arm. “Come on, have you seen Eric?”
He shook his head. “He’s the belle of the ball,” he said, “I wouldn’t want to interrupt.”
“Oh, don’t be silly,” she said, wrapping her hand around his forearm, “he’s going to be so pleased you’re here.”
He was powerless at that point to do anything other than be ushered into the group of besuited bodies gathered in the middle of the lawn. He knew it was the best outcome; approaching them himself seemed almost impossible. But with Pattie there it was like he was coming with a recommendation.
“John!” Eric said, his eyes wide, as he turned at Pattie’s call for him. He turned fully, an almost comic look of surprise on his face when he recognised who Pattie was dragging towards him. “Fucking hell, didn’t expect to see you.”
John was wrapped up in another hug. He thought dimly that might be the most he’d been touched in weeks, outside of Sean. Longer perhaps. He shook the thought off, smiled and tried to remember how to make small talk. He started by congratulating the groom and managed not to mention the strangeness of the situation. He didn’t even say anything insulting. Then he dodged questions of Yoko and Sean by making jokes. Then he dodged questions about work by offering some vague musings on the idea of what another album would even look like after his extended leave of absence from the scene.
It was fine. Even when the others slowly inserted themselves into his conversation with Eric and Pattie. He thought he probably knew around half of them. About two thirds of those he had some idea of the name of. None of them seemed angry with him. He supposed it was a wedding: you weren't allowed to be anything but happy. So, of course old acquaintances were going to remain polite on behalf of the blissful couple.
Not that it stopped him from feeling vaguely out of place, like maybe his new suit didn’t actually fit him at all suddenly. He’d never been one for going backwards before. Especially in this case, where the past wasn’t just a foreign land, it was a burned out bomb crater.
He wanted to be moving forward. If he wasn’t improving, if he wasn’t doing something new, then what was the point? The last four years had been a constant tension between a desperate feeling that his life was being drained from him and terror at the idea of doing anything else. It had started to feel like he was slowly suffocating under the weight of his own inadequacy. Usually Sean was enough to soothe him, to reassure himself that he was doing the most important work of his life. He might not be able to undo the shitty dad he’d been to Julian, but he could do it differently with Sean. At least until he was old enough to know that John truly loved him, had given up enough for him. Unlike either of his parents had done for him.
It had been enough. For a long time, it had been enough. Now, less so. Now, two times out of three, it wasn’t enough. He had no idea what to do with the feeling, what boat he needed to find away from his current life. Running away to England probably wasn’t going to be it. But you never knew.
But first, there were some hurdles he’d have to jump. And three of them were about to appear at this particular party. The thought of it twisted in his stomach, making him feel queasy. It was almost like stagefright. There were only a few people that he thought would be able to see through the facade he’d managed to pull over himself, that would have even a hope of seeing the seething mass of uncertainty and pain that was still, despite everything, threatening to drag him under. All of them just happened to have probably already arrived to mill around the same beautiful English garden as him.
He saw Richie first. Perhaps God hadn’t completely abandoned him after all. He was standing in the middle of a group of people, all laughing uproariously. John could easily have avoided him; Richie wasn’t looking his way. It would be simple to just duck away and head in the opposite direction.
But that was only going to make it worse. Richie was the best person he could have seen. He and Yoko had seen him recently enough. It would probably be fine. It always was with Richie.
Still, he had to take a deep, steadying breath and let it out slowly before he could get himself to move. He told himself in the firmest possible tone that he could do it. He was a braver man than his instinct to hide suggested. He squared his shoulders and walked over to the group.
“Ringo!” he called, when he was sure he was close enough.
Sure enough, Richie looked up and his face immediately broke into a smile. John’s chest loosened at the sight of it. Familiar and always, no matter what, welcome.
“John,” he called, breaking away from the group and coming over. He threw his arms around John’s shoulders and pulled him into a tight hug. “I didn’t know you were coming!”
“Well,” John said, squeezing him gently and pulling back, “you know me. Got to keep people guessing.”
“Where’s Yoko and Sean?” he asked, looking around curiously.
A little stab of pain - guilt and something sharp and worse - rippled through him. “Oh, she’s in New York. She’s got too much work. You know, capitalism is a cruel beast.”
“Yoko hasn’t managed to tame it yet?”
John smiled, a strange pull of his lips. “Not yet.”
“Well, if anyone can,” Richie said, easily. “But this is great! We get you all to ourselves. Have you seen Pattie and Eric?”
“Sure,” John said. “I’ve given all the good regards to the newlyweds.”
There was a beat where it was clear they were both considering mentioning the elephant in the room. The reason why they’d both been brought to this particular garden. But then Richie clearly decided against it. He was always the least likely to engage in that sort of gossip.
“How long are you staying?”
John froze. No one had asked that and he hadn’t considered what he was going to say. Thinking too far ahead seemed dangerous. There were far too many variables to consider. He’d had half a mind to head to Hong Kong so that, perhaps, he’d never even need to tell Yoko he hadn’t been. But his thoughts got no further, because some part of him was hoping that the moment he’d arrived back in England his future might reveal itself to him. It hadn’t so far. He was still clueless about what would make him happier for longer than the five minutes it usually lasted.
“Ah, you know,” he said, waving his hand vaguely. “Until the winds change and I’m blown away to the next thing.”
Richie smiled and wrapped an arm around his shoulder. “Better make the most of it, then. Drink?”
John raised his hand, showing that he was already holding a glass of champagne and therefore indicating that he was a few steps ahead of him.
“Another,” Richie said, as John knew he would. “When has one ever been enough?”
John laughed and let himself be tugged along in his wake as they made their way over to the nearest table holding drinks.
“You seen Paul?” Richie asked, as they walked, in the same way you might ask someone if they’d noticed the ticking bomb in the corner of the room. His eyes slid over to John, as though gauging his reaction.
John shifted, trying to throw off the immediate discomfort that settled over him. “On TV?” he asked, taking a swing of the dregs of his drink. “All the time.”
Richie raised his eyebrows.
“Leave off,” he said, waving his hand. “I’m not going to start anything. It’s a celebration. I’m here for a good time, not for- whatever.”
He nodded. “Alright,” he said, always willing to take John at his word. God fucking bless him. “You gonna play? Eric keeps asking everyone. Think it’s the cost of entry.”
He quirked his mouth. “Could do something off Imagine,” he said, winking. “You know, for old time’s sake.”
That got a laugh, loud and unabashed. Totally Richie. John smiled helplessly back at him.
“Let’s have a drink before you decide if How Do You Sleep needs another airing,” he said, waving grandly toward the table that they’d arrived in front of. “Let that idea sit awhile.”
“Capital idea,” he agreed.
They chatted easily as they sipped their drinks. It was easy to be with him, Richie never wanted to ask anything difficult. He just wanted everyone to be happy. It was enough to keep eighty percent of his mind occupied; the rest couldn’t stop noticing the way eyes landed on them or knowing that everyone was waiting for the greatest reunion in history to happen right in front of them. He could feel the weight of their expectation settle over him, cloying and uncomfortable.
Abruptly it was too much. He needed to keep moving, throw some of the stares off of him. He drained the last of his drink.
“Just need to pop to the bog,” he said, plonking the glass down on the white tablecloth. "Back in the flash of a catfish’s whiskers.”
Richie waved him off and turned back to the table. John watched him for a moment, as he took another drink and walked away only to be immediately subsumed into another group of revellers. Then he slunk away, aiming to get lost in the crowd.
George found him next. The little shit had some sort of beacon where John was concerned. It was just like being back at school. George would always just turn up wherever he was. John had only just decided that it was safe enough to try and find another drink. Just a little fizz to take the edge off the way his whole body was vibrating with nerves. He’d managed to have a few other polite conversations with people that apparently knew him. Enough to remember why he didn’t come back to England. There were too many people that knew him, that had opinions about him. Not to mention, worse, expectations.
He spotted George from a few feet away, walking with great purpose in his direction. He wasn’t wearing a suit; he was far too alternative for that these days. His shirt looked vaguely Indian in its patterns, with a tan jacket thrown over it. He looked good. Older, with his moustache and sharp cheekbones.
John drew himself up, ready to face the attack head on.
“You still mad?” he asked, as George sidled up to him. He kept his voice low and inflection free.
“Didn’t think you’d show,” George said, by way of greeting and ignoring the question. “Told Eric it wasn’t worth the paper to even send the invite.”
“Beatle George,” he said, grimacing at him, and using his most sickly sweet tone. “Always such a delight to see you.”
George continued to pretend to have gone deaf. “Where’s the rest of the clan?”
They often argued like this. Parallel tracks of insults that they both pretended to ignore. It never got them anywhere.
“Not sure if I ought to be congratulating or commiserating with you,” he said, looking around and easily locating Pattie, Eric’s arm around her waist.
That gave George pause. John wondered if no one had felt able to bring it up. Probably. Most people were hypocrites. Cowards and boring too. At least John was only those things some of the time.
After glaring didn’t achieve anything, because John wasn’t in any way intimidated by it, George just shrugged. “You’ve been gone a long time,” he said, voice clipped. “A lot of things have changed. You might have missed it, but I’m a married father.”
He nodded. Of course he knew all that. It didn’t change his basic feelings on the matter. “Not what I was asking.”
“You didn’t ask anything.” His tone had moved away from chipped and into cold and angry. It had been awhile since John had heard it any other way.
It would be easy to keep it that way. He knew all the ways to snipe at him, get George proper riled up. They could be screaming, George throwing his drink over John, in probably under ten minutes.
But that wasn’t why he’d come. That was going backwards. He might not know what precisely he wanted from the trip, but he was sure it wasn’t that.
So he leant forward, dropping his voice. “I could beat him up if you like; I know how to ruin parties with that sort of thing. Got the form.”
George let out a huff of laughter, his surprise and genuine amusement clear. “You would as well. Get chucked back out of the country again.” He swallowed and looked away. His jaw was tight. He looked thin, sad under the bluster. John’s chest hurt for him. “This is fine, you know. She’s happy and I'd rather she was with someone I know.”
John watched him, trying to find the lie. But there was none. He frowned. “You’re a weird little man, you know that? I’d rather anyone else than a friend.”
“Surprisingly,” he said, his lips pulling down, “I don’t follow John Lennon’s guide to getting the perfect, happy life. Which I have, actually, in case you hadn’t noticed up in your American ivory tower.”
“Ouch,” John said, hand over his heart. “Still a bit mad then.”
“I’m not mad,” he said. “Or, I wasn’t at the start of this conversation. I’m just answering your invasive questions like the polite acquaintance I am.”
“Double ouch,” he said. “I forgot what a little shit you are.”
George’s mouth finally turned up slightly. He let out a long breath, like a long suffering assistant. “How long you staying?”
“Probably about two more conversations like this,” he said, taking a swig from his glass.
“You surprised at the reception? It’s not like you left many bridges that weren’t at least smoking.”
“No,” he said. He swallowed hard and looked out at the crowd of faces. “Why’d you think I stayed away?”
George nodded in acknowledgment, clearly mollified by the fact he hadn’t lied. “Why now?”
He shrugged. “It’s time; besides, despite your best efforts, I got the invite and it just seemed… I don’t know. For the first time in years the idea of being here seemed better than being somewhere else.”
“I’m sure we’re all very flattered.” There was a beat of silence. John waited, it could really go either way at this point. George could easily disappear back into the crowd, like an aggrieved cat, and ignore him for the rest of the night. Or… “Drink?”
John’s shoulders dropped, the tension he’d been storing there sliding off of him. “I’ve had several,” he said, and watched the way George’s whole body coiled with annoyance. “But, I can accompany you on your road to getting drunk enough not to find this whole thing as weird as it fucking is.”
“There are weirder things,” George said, determined. “What’s the point in being mad? I’d lose them both, and for what? My hurt ego? I couldn’t keep her happy- we couldn't… This isn’t worse. Not in the long term. It’s worth a bit of discomfort.”
“You’re still a weird little man,” John said. “But, there’s something admirable about it.”
“Oh good,” George sighed. “I can sleep easy knowing I have your reluctant, lukewarm approval.”
John just laughed.
“Come meet Dhani,” George said. He somehow managed to convey that he didn’t give a shit about whether John agreed, while also being clear that he cared deeply.
John felt almost frozen, the strangeness of the moment rolling over him. He’d never met George’s son. All those times that the two of them had spent with Julian, George holding him as they posed for pictures, or patiently helping Julian paint on the floor of John’s living room. They’d been so close. Brothers. And now he didn’t even know what colour hair George’s first born had. But there wasn’t time to dwell, because he had no choice but to follow behind George, meek as a lamb.
Two down. The worst to go.
– – –
He knew the moment Paul arrived. Later than most, but still within the timeframe to miss being outright rude. There was an eruption of noise and John’s heart skipped a beat before taking off like he’d just narrowly escaped death. He immediately decided to delay the investable. He was a master at that, and in no mood to break the habit of a lifetime. Swimming against the tide until he got too tired and was pulled under was his most basic response to any situation.
He spent the next hour ensuring he was one step in front of, or behind, Paul. He thought if the meeting could happen when he was at least a little more settled, it’d be less awful. Still terrible. But perhaps manageable.
It was easy to avoid being where Paul was. He was preceded by a ripple of activity; like a shark passing through the water. You just needed to track the smaller fishes, watch how they scurried out of the way or followed in his path, hoping to clean up in his wake.
Of course it couldn't last forever. He’d come knowing he’d have to see him. He wasn’t sure entirely why he was even avoiding it. They’d seen each other plenty of times, most of those hadn’t even been terrible.
This just felt different. He was vulnerable. Alone. He knew that while even George would let that go, Paul would know . He’d see John’s solo visit for what it was. The portent of change. John didn’t want that. Didn’t want to confront it or have to answer the questions Paul would ask; there was no shame in the man. He just asked outright when he wanted to know what was happening with John.
It was gone four when John finally came to the conclusion that running was pointless. That, really, he ought to take the initiative. At least that way he’d have some semblance of control over the whole thing. He could come up with an opening if nothing else, rather than being caught unawares. It was a miracle he’d managed to avoid him for an hour, longer was tempting fate, or perhaps using up luck he’d need elsewhere.
He spotted him for what seemed like the millionth time across a gaggle of people. He was wearing, of all things, a light blue suit with a thick red trim. He didn’t look so dissimilar to when they’d last met. Although thankfully the moustache was absent.
He gathered the tatters of his courage and made his way over. He’d been so wrapped up in avoiding him, that it took him until he was a few feet away to realise something was missing. Half the picture in fact.
“God, what a terrible suit,” he said, the words spilling out a bit too quickly as he stepped up to Paul’s elbow. It was clear he was nervous; the words were too close together. Paul would know that the attack was really a frightened retreat.
Paul turned to him, his smile dimming and eyebrows raising. “At least I don’t appear to be attending the most boring business meeting imaginable.”
John had forgotten, somehow, what a little shit Paul could be. He’d never been scared of John a day in his life. Even when he was nothing more than a scrawny child with greased hair and a jacket almost as terrible as the one he was currently wearing.
God, he’d missed him.
That was the problem with seeing him up close. In 3D and full technicolour. It was easier to remember him. The idea of Paul was jagged and painful, a reminder that he ought to stay away. The reality was something else. He wasn’t sure, exactly, what anymore. But it was certainly more complicated.
“Where’s the wife?” Paul asked, looking around, apparently not interested in continued sartorial discussions.
“Nah uh,” John said, wagging a figure. “That’s my line.”
Paul’s mouth quirked. “But I asked first.”
Stalemate.
They stared at one another. There were probably only about three people in the world that John would even contemplate not winning a staring contest against. Sadly the man steadily holding his gaze was one of them. He sighed. There was no point in carrying on any pretence anyway, it wasn’t like he could keep pretending she was in the loo every time Paul appeared.
“New York,” he said, his tone as casual as he could make it. No big deal. It wasn’t like they were joined at the umbilical cord anymore.
Paul’s surprise was obvious. Just like it had been on everyone else’s face since he’d arrived. “So just you?”
“Yeah,” John agreed. It sounded small, embarrassing. Too stark. “Just me.”
“Linda didn’t fancy it,” Paul burst out. He sounded like Sean when he’d been trying to keep a secret: practically vibrating at the seams with the desire to let it out. “She’s with the kids.”
John suspected his own surprise was just as obvious as Paul’s had been. “Didn’t think you were allowed out alone.”
The look he got in return said clearly where he could stick that thought. He snorted. It was tempting to push at the clear sore spot, even if it left him exposed to the obvious retort. But he reminded himself he wasn’t there to settle old scores. If the ledger that held them even still existed. He just wanted to enjoy the party. See some old friends. Try to remember who he was before he left and tried to reinvent himself halfway across the world.
He should take Paul’s singular appearance as a sign that the night might actually be good. It could even be fun. Just like it had been the last time they’d been out together during his stint off for good behaviour from Yoko. If he was looking to see what was left of his old self, then surely the person that helped create it was a good starting point.
The instinct to crush the potential was surprisingly strong. He pushed it away. It was time to be the one to reach out.
“Well, in that case,” he said, feeling lighter than he had in ages with the path forward chosen, “you can get as pissed as you want.”
There was a moment before the words seemed to click into place in Paul’s mind. Then he grinned. Clearly, and unabashedly, delighted. “I guess I can.”
“Champers, darling?” John asked, bowing slightly, affecting a voice he’d always used when taking the piss out of Brian or any other toff he’d happened across.
“Well said, old chap.” Paul met him easily, grinning.
— — —
“This is weird, isn’t it?” John asked, as Paul was pouring the drinks.
He looked up, a flash of worry passing across his face. John waved him off by gesturing around them. “Celebrating our friend running off with our other friend’s wife.”
Paul shrugged. “They’re happy.”
“So they say.”
“People can’t help who they fall in love with,” Paul said, perhaps a little too firmly. Perhaps even a tad pointedly. “It’s not for anyone else to say.”
John held up his hands in surrender. “Heaven forbid,” he said. “I never gave a shit about Eric. But if George’s happy about this, I’ll eat that terrible scarf you’re wearing.”
Paul rolled his eyes. “He says he’s happy; he’s got Olivia and Dhani. And if he’s not, what good is it for us to make him dwell on it?”
There wasn’t much to say to that. Despite his desire to point out that moving on with someone new didn’t necessarily stop the past hurting just as keenly as it always had. But not even he was stupid enough to bring that up. And anyway, the deed was done. Not that it couldn’t be undone, but that would take time. A longer-term action plan. If one were needed. They didn’t need to come up with it now.
“Well then,” John conceded, “let’s just get on with the task at hand then.”
He nodded to the glass Paul was holding and was duly handed it.
They were half way through their first glass when Richie appeared behind Paul.
“No one’s dead or maimed?” he asked, grinning as he approached where they were sitting.
They’d chosen a secluded part of the garden, hedges to one side of them. John always preferred only having to be aware of one direction of attack. So far they hadn’t been bothered. Perhaps everyone was concerned about getting caught in the crossfire. Which was unfair; he and Paul were adults. Adults who had made a point of telling everyone they’d patched up their differences many times. However untrue that may or may not be.
“Not even a scratch,” John said, with a grin. “We were just catching up.”
“Care to join, Ringo, my lad?” Paul asked, beaming up at him. His cheeks were rosy, flushed by the alcohol and the warm afternoon sun.
“Don’t mind if I do,” Richie agreed, dragging a chair from nearby to sit at John’s right.
— — —
They’d polished off the bottle and Richie was working on opening the second when George stumbled over to them. He looked unruffled, but there was a slight lean to his walk that suggested he hadn’t remained entirely sober.
“I heard a vicious rumour that three Beatles had been seen in the area,” he said. His face was pinched with displeasure.
John squinted at him, unsure if he was putting it on or not.
“Oh dear,” he said, “you wanna get that seen too. Once you get a couple, an infestation’s only a matter of days away.”
“Never get rid of them after that.” Richie waved the bottle in his direction. “Drink?”
“I’ve had enough,” George sighed.
John wondered of what as George sat down heavily to John’s left. They were close enough that their arms were brushing. The proximity was George talk for being sorry that he’d been a prat. John wasn’t sure which occasion he was sorry for, but he was warmed enough by the booze and how well the afternoon was going to allow it. He pressed into him. George turned to him, there was the slightest of rises in his lips.
“You just gotta push through,” he said, nudging George gently with his elbow. “Have a little more and you’ll soon be enjoying it again.”
“Always think you know better,” George muttered. But he reached out and snatched the bottle from Richie and filled his glass anyway.
“Reckon that’ll run out?” Paul said.
It was clear he meant the event’s supply rather than the bottle, which was mostly empty, after their glasses had all been topped up.
Richie frowned. “You mean we should slow down?”
“No,” Paul shook his head, “I meant we should grab a couple more bottles before someone else does.”
Laughter erupted out of John with a shock of pleasure. “That’s the spirit!” he bellowed. “Off you pop Richard.”
“Why me?” Richie asked, looking affronted.
“Everyone likes you,” George said. You’d never tell from his tone that he’d been against the whole idea moments before. “They’ll never stop you.”
Richie glowered, but he dutifully sauntered, fairly unsteadily, away over the lawn. They watched him go for a beat.
“Think we’ll ever see him again?” John asked.
“No,” George said, just as Paul said, “Oh, have a little faith in dear Richard.”
John laughed again, then wondered how long it had been since he’d done it so often over the course of a single afternoon, how long it had been since he’d been around anyone that made him want to. Then promptly felt depressed at the thought. The rollercoaster of emotions was always faster in the presence of The Beatles.
“What you been gossiping about, then?” George asked, looking between them with a slightly suspicious tone.
“You,” John said in tandem with Paul.
They both laughed as George glared at them.
“So, how’s the house?” John said, deciding that it was probably time to change tack to safer waters. “You built paradise in that garden of yours yet?’
“Getting there,” he said. “You know how it is. How’s New York? You must own that entire building by now.”
“Nah,” he said, “just a couple of floors. Payback for them not wanting us there.”
“Morons,” Paul muttered. “That was silly that.”
John felt a little stab of pleasure at the reassurance. Even years later. “How’s the farm?” he asked, grinning. “You got a cartel going there yet, or what?”
Paul grinned and winked. “Working on it, son, working on it.”
“I can’t reckon you as a gangster,” George said.
“Why not?” Paul looked genuinely offended.
“Wooler said we looked like wrong-uns,” John jumped in, tamping down on the desire to laugh. “And that was before I beat the shit out of him.”
“Well, he was a moron,” George said, easily dismissing the evidence. “No, you’ve got that innocent face. You’re not scaring anyone into following orders with that cherub-looking mug.”
“He could grow the beard back,” John said, contemplative.
“Hey now,” Paul started, but then Richie appeared again. He was holding four bottles aloft, two in each hand.
John and Paul cheered and even George was grinning by the time he was taking his seat.
“Hail the conquering hero,” John sang, and knew before it happened that Paul was going to make the trumpet noises.
“Get it open then,” George said, reaching for one.
Richie plonked himself down, completing their little circle. It was a matter of moments before the bottle was open again.
TBC